


And Gant Slew Ballard

by wildair7



Category: Logan's Run Series - William F. Nolan & George Clayton Johnson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildair7/pseuds/wildair7
Summary: This short story is based on the Logan's Run book series by William F. Nolan and George Johnston and gives one explanation of how Ballard died.





	And Gant Slew Ballard

**And Gant Slew Ballard**

 

by

 

Janelle Holmes, writing as Leigh Chapman

 

     Long, ferret-lean body stretched out in the contour chair, Gant smiled cruelly, exposing small, white teeth. His tiny eyes darted from one Sandman to the next, his ruby-encrusted fingers jabbing the map before him. “I want Ballard found. Not killed. He’s got the secrets we want, the location of Thinker Core and the Sanctuary Line. But, without him, we won’t find any of it. And we need to know.” It was a long speech for Gant, since his orders were usually precise and curt with no explanation.

     Evans Nine shifted his weight forward but looked at the men from Gant’s side. “He was last seen somewhere near the Old Capitol. Should be able to trace him from there.”

     “But that was too long ago,” Gant countered. He looked to Evans. “You’ll come with me.”

     “And what about us?” one of the others asked.

     “You’ll divide up, scout the area between the Capitol and the Cape then relay any sightings to me or Evans.”

     “How we gonna find him? No one knows what he looks like.”

     “There aren’t any lone citizens roaming around anymore, but he’s still guiding Runners along the Sanctuary Line.”

     Evans picked up where Gant left off. “We found some dead at Molly. They talked plenty before we terminated them.” He smiled evilly. “The old man, called Whale, who lived there, too.”

     “We know Cape’s the jump-off for Sanctuary, so we wait there,” Gant said, “until Ballard shows. Then,” he said, clenching his hand into a tight fist, “we close in.”

   

     No living Sandman knew Ballard’s face, his true face. The history records relating Ballard’s defection had long since been labelled “Inaccessible” by Thinker. Only Gant remembered. To the others, Ballard was a legend—an apparition of impossibilities.

     Gant had grown up with the legend of Ballard, gone through training with Francis Seven and Logan Three in Greater Los Angeles Complex. Very few of his men knew Francis—he was before their training had begun in earnest—very few did not know of Logan Three—the Sandman who Ran.

 

     Relaying those seeking Sanctuary had grown more difficult for Ballard in the last ten years. There had been times, looking back, when even he didn’t think Logan would show at the next station, when he’d though Logan wasn’t right for Sanctuary. Yes, even Logan. Back then, those many years, it was getting harder for him to tell the deserving from the underserving.

     Ballard wondered if he was getting old. Maybe people shouldn’t live past twenty. Maybe they did deteriorate somehow. He himself was slower, his reactions not as good as they should be to allow him to survive. One day, he knew, Gant would catch up with him. He’d tried for years. And Gant wasn’t the type to give up. But for now, it was time for Ballard to resume his identity as a Citizen, time for him to return to LA Complex and take up his role as a ruthless hunter, as a Sandman—killer of all Runners.

     But what the man called by many names found upon his return from Outside was a City

slightly changed, changed in spite of his short absence. Things didn’t seem as orderly as before...residence pools were coated with debris and some of the constantly lit fluorescent lights of Arcade had gone dark. But the Citizens, as usual, seemed happy, oblivious to their shortening lives and lived only for the moment.

     Could Thinker’s circuits be failing? If they were, it wasn’t a good time for Ballard to return Outside to Crazy Horse Caverns to check out the giant computer’s mile upon mile of memory banks and electronics. It would have to wait.

     Now he entered DS Headquarters. “Get that Sandman traitor?” Gant said with a sneer as the Sandman entered CC.

     “He won’t give us any more trouble,” the other answered. It was getting harder to lie. He’d hesitated a full nanosecond before answering. Was he becoming old?

     “Hard to believe a Sandman would help a Runner much less become one,” Gant went on, his beady eyes scrutinizing the other’s face. “Isn’t it?”

     “Yes, it is.”

     Gant watched suspiciously as the usually more verbose operative walked silently away. The cruel Gant was more than suspicious. He’d reflected on the fact that this particular operative was always Outside, when there were one or more Runners reportedly heading for Sanctuary. Friends talked. But some of the Runners’ friend knew nothing of Sanctuary, not even under interrogation, interrogation only a Sandman with Truthtell could effectively perform. And there was something else, too. This particular man bore a resemblance Gant had never noticed until now, a resemblance to someone—someone, but who? It mattered little. He would remember. Gant always remembered.

 

     By the time the Sandman now known as Andrews arrived at this living unit, he’d come to one of the most important decisions in his life. He’d leave the Cities never to enter them again as an Operative Sandman. Andrews Four would be terminated.

 

HISTORY RECORD 2355. SUBJECT: END OF CITIES, SPECIFICALLY REGARDING GANT.

  

IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE THE CITIES MET WITH NEAR TOTAL ANNIHILATION, LEAVING THE CITIZENS IN A STATE OF UTTER CONFUSION AND HELPLESSNESS TO MEET OUTSIDE.

 

THERE WERE SOME WHO CONFRONTED THE NEW SITUATION WITH MORE RESOURCEFULNESS THAN OTHERS. THERE WERE IMMEDIATE, DRASTIC CHANGES INITIATED BY THOSE OF KNOWLEDGE—IMMEDIATE AND DRASTIC ENOUGH TO CHANGE THE WHOLE SOCIAL STRUCTURE OF WHAT REMAINED.

 

THE MAJORITY OF THESE MANIUPULATORS WERE MEMBERS OF THE CITIZENS’ DEEP SLEEP FORCES, POLICE-LIKE ENFORCEMENT GROUPS ONCE RESPONSIBLE FOR ENFORCING WHAT LAW THERE WAS IN THE CITIES—PRINCIPALLY THAT ALL MUST TERMINATE, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, AT THE AGE OF TWENTY YEARS OF LIFE.

 

GANT WAS A MEMBER OF THAT DS FORCE. HE WAS CALLED SANDMAN OR HAD BEEN. MOST STILL WORE THE SOMBER BLACK UNIFORMS THEY’D WORN SINCE THEIR INITIATION, ALTHOUGH THERE REMAINED VERY LITTLE OF THE ORGANIZATION ITSELF. THE ENTIRE HEADQUARTERS COMPLEX WAS GONE, DESTORYED BY THE THING WHICH NONE COULD NAME, THE THING WHICH THEY REFERRED TO AS “BEFORE”. ONLY GANT, ONE OF THE SMALL GROUP OF REMAINING DS, SAW THE BIGGER OPPORTUNITIES WHICH LAY AHEAD.

 

AT FIRST HIS GROUP HAD NUIMBERED TEN BUT HAD GROWN LARGER EVERY DAY, AS MORE AND MORE SANDMEN SAW WHAT ALTERNATIVES THEY COULD CHOOSE OTHER THAN ROAMING A LAND OF THESE HALF-INHABITED, COMPUTERLESS CITIES. THEY WANTED MORE---EXCITEMENT, CHALLENGE, AND RICHES.

 

GANT WAS DETERMINED TO FORM THE MOST POWERFUL ORGANZIATION THE CITIES HAD EVER KNOWN. BUT THERE WERE THOSE WHO OPPOSED HIM. THESE, GANT AND HIS MEN ARRANGED FOR CONVEIENT ACCIDENTS TO BEFALL—FATAL ONES. BEFORE LONG, ALL THOSE IN CONTROLLING POSITIONS WERE THE CRUELEST, MOST DEMORALIZED HUMAN BEINGS ALIVE. THEY WOULD STOP AT NOTHING TO GAIN WHAT THEY SOUGHT. AND GANT WAS THEIR LEADER.

 

     While Gant and his second-in-command Evans cut their way through the dense underbrush of the deserted swampland, which bordered old Cape Steinbeck, he was silent, thinking. He did much thinking, always probing his mind for forgotten or misplaced valuable information.

     He remembered his first suspicions of Andrews had begun just before that Sandman had once more gone Outside and had not returned. No one knew exactly what had happened, although rumors from San Fran Complex had him strangled and drowned in the Bay by a frantic gunman. But those rumors only heightened Gant’s suspicions. It was then he remembered the old records of Ballard Two’s disappearance. And there were still Runners who spoke Ballard’s name as they pleaded for the mercy of the Homer, rather than the slow, torturing death of a Tangler charge...which Gant preferred.

     A sudden beeping on Evan’s Follower returned Gant’s attention to the present. It was a message from Ackland Three near Atlanta Complex.

     CITIZEN TRACKED YOUR DIRECTION. MALE. RED BLINKER.

     It was the Runner they’d been waiting for since Andrew’s disappearance, the one who’d bait the trap for Ballard. Two long years of waiting and planning were about to see fruition.

     Evans acknowledged. So much like Gant was he, he knew the other’s thoughts, as if they were his own. Ballard was near or would be waiting at the Cape. He wouldn’t miss getting a Runner to Sanctuary...and there was still one small spacecraft waiting departure, one of those their informant had seen launched two years before. Yes, Ballard would come...and then they’d have the key to their futures. Evan’s boyish good looks contorted into an evil smirk, matching one of Gant’s.

 

     It was morning before Evans, posted to the west of the Cape, sighted the Runner. Back at the minefield, which surrounded the launch site, Gant received his partner’s message with anxiety. The countdown was at hand. Moments were now precious. One mistake could cost him everything. Timing had to be perfect.

     His dark eyes searched the tops of the low buildings across the minefield. Nothing. No, wait! There, there at the south, near the field’s edge, was a glimmer of light. A sparkle, a glint like that reflected from a magnifying telescope.

     Was Ballard looking for his Runner, too?”

     Gant smiled, edging his way to the south through the cover of the huge, moss-hung cypress and watery sucking mud. There, in the semi-darkness ahead of him, loomed a one-man paravane. Wading up to the bank, Gant crawled up and over into the air machine.

     Cold. It had been here several hours. But was it Ballard’s?

     On a hunch, Gant removed a homing disc from his pouch and attached it to the hull of the gleaming ‘vane.  If it belonged to Ballard, he’d soon know. But what if Ballard left with the Runner?

     No, he wouldn’t do that. There’d be more Runners; Ballard was too softhearted to leave those who might come in the future.

     Evans signaled the Runner’s proximity to the minefield, and Gant turned there, watching patiently.

     The Runner stopped, waiting. Another man came from the swamp toward him, dressed in brown kidleather trimfits and signaled the Runner, approaching him, where they started across the field, carefully zigzagging their way closer and closer to the launch pads.

     The man on the roof joined them, then. It was Ballard. It had to be, and the other? Andrews Four, perhaps. Perhaps not.

     Evans’ Gun erupted from his hiding place, exploding the Runner in a Nitro charge. The Runner’s resulting scream Gant’s cue to blast the Sanctuary man, it left Ballard without protection. From just beyond the trees bordering the launch pads, Gant shouted, “Give it up, Ballard. Your Sanctuary days’re over.”

     But Ballard wasn’t without strategy. He’d a Gun of his own and aimed it into the brush, ejecting the Vapor charge to give him a moment’s cover while he made his way to the paravane.

    

     In a few minutes, Ballard was above the trees and headed northwest toward Dakota Sector and Crazy Horse Caverns. It had been too close a call this time. Gant knew. And, if Gant knew this much then all was lost. Ballard knew he had to get to Thinker’s Core and destroy it before Gant discovered its location and reprogrammed Thinker to his own evil needs.

     But what Ballard didn’t know was Gant and Evans followed in their own ‘vane some distance back, keeping him on their monitor, thanks to the hidden homing disc.

 

     Fifteen hours later, almost to the minute, the silvery paravane settled down in the chalky dust before Crazy Horse Monument. Ballard stepped out, looked briefly to the dark skies, and began his upward journey, climbing the hill to the monument’s base. His once indefatigable strength now tested beyond its fragile limits, he reached up for a handhold on a jutting ledge then felt a sudden wrench of pain shooting up his left arm, halting all movement.

     Fine time for a muscle cramp, he thought. Can’t let Gant use Thinker. It has to be destroyed.

     Ignoring the pain, Ballard struggled farther upward, teeth clenched, lined face strained and grimy, until he gained the base of the great chief’s likeness and the entrance to Crazy Horse Caverns.

     Blinded, even though the sun had set hours before, making it necessary for him to switch on his Follower’s light, Ballard made his way downward, each step bringing him closer to his self-appointed duty. Several long tunnels later, the ceiling soared upward to one-hundred-meters. Here, its lights twinkling like a cloudless night, was Thinker, the heart of the Cities, brain of their Citizens. It thought for them, controlled their lives, determined their destinies, and had lengthened Ballard’s life beyond the normal course of twenty years.

     Each time he beheld Thinker’s beauty, Ballard was filled with awe; for it was the closest thing to a god the Citizens had. And now, he was about to destroy it and those people it governed too, just as if he’d plunged a vibroknife into each of their hearts. But it had to be done.

     If Thinker was God, then Gant was Satan. And a god in the hands of Evil was unthinkable, more unthinkable than the lives he, Ballard, would be held responsible and accountable for after this day.

     Some would survive—some like Logan Three and the woman Jessica Six. And yes, even Gant. Undoubtedly, Gant. He was too inhuman not to survive.

     Walking reverently onto the gangway which led to the Core, Ballard noticed, even as he approached it, the nameplates illuminated like a death sentence: Greater LA; Greater San Fran; Greater Port.—all the major West Coast domes. Under each glowed the green Function light, below, now dead, sat the Non-function one, and below it, the Cessation switch. They lay invitingly at his fingertips, as, ruthlessly, he flipped each, content only when the red light glowed obscenely in his face.

     Opening the panel to his right, he removed the key there and unlocked another, smaller panel within to push the Destruct button, erasing all memory banks and ending computer control of the entire West Coast. He continued for the other Sectors then stepped into the tunnel and launched a hand-bomb into Thinker’s body.

     Waiting until the dust cleared, he then climbed the access ladder into the Inner Core, the heart of the Heart, the brain of the Brain. His left arm useless with agony, he relied only on his right one and, hand clinging tenaciously to the rungs, made his descent.

     Above he heard the sound of angry voices bursting on the cavern walls of the Thinker Room like small bombs.

     “Ballard. We know you’re here. Better give it up.”

     It was Gant, always Gant, his voice cruelly flirtatious and solicitous.

     Ballard clung to the rung, cautious any movement might give his position away then heard, “Shine your light around the room.” Gant talking quietly to his partner. The light came close, dangerously close, too close. Ballard watched its beam glint off one of the cylindrical hand-bombs at his belt, and at that moment, his heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second.

     “There! What was that?” he heard.

     Again, the light attacked and found its prey.

     “Thought you’d get away, eh, Ballard? Not this time. This time you’re finally terminated, Runner!”

     Ballard took a breath, steeled his quickly deteriorating nerves and snatched back what courage he remembered from the years before to answer his Hunter. “Think you’re tough, don’t you, Gant?” he finally said. “You so touch you’d Tangler a man you’ve hated for years, without giving him a chance at you?”

     “I’ve done it before, plenty of times. So have all Sandmen. We all hate Runners, and that’s what you are, Ballard, just another filthy Runner.”

     “Ever bothered to talk to a Runner, Gant. Any Runner? Ever listen to why he Runs?”

     “I don’t like talk, much less talking to a Runner. People who want to talk before you terminate them only want to change you to their way of thinking. I only want to think my way. And you’re just like them, Ballard. You can’t change my mind. I don’t listen to them, and I won’t listen to you.”

     “Would you listen to another Sandman?”

     He could almost see Gant’s sneer as he answered, “I only see two Sandmen here, and neither one wants to see you live.”

     “There’s a third, Gant. Francis Seven is here, too.”  The last word echoed up at Gant, and Ballard could see him looking quickly about, Gun at the ready, since he’d always distrusted Francis.

     “Give Ballard a chance,” said a distant, yet familiar, voice. “Let him fight you fair, Gant. No weapons. He’s an old man. What harm can he do you?”

     “Where are you, Francis? I’ll fight you, too, if that’s what you want.”

     “Right now I’m staying where I can make sure the fight is fair. But, when I’m ready, I’ll fight you. You can be sure of it.”

     Ballard heard Gant cursing under his breath. “All right, Ballard,” he now heard, “come on up. The Sandman’s gained you a few more minutes to live.”

     Slowly, painfully denying the acute anguish of his body, Ballard ascended the ladder to where Gant stood on the gangway, waiting, leering like a cadaverous goblin. But Ballard surprised him, swinging up and kicking the gaunt operative in the stomach then jumping to the walkway to crouch into an Omnite posture.

     Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evans backing away, no doubt wondering, as Gant did, at the old Runner’s knowledge of such secret DS training.

     Gant leapt to his feet, swinging about to meet Ballard’s ready form, evil smeared across his face and glinting in his narrow, dark eyes. His ruby-encrusted hands parted the air, balancing, seeking and waiting for an opening then flashed at Ballard’s neck to be driven away by a third hand. Seconds later, Gant crashed to the floor behind the aging Runner, but once more leapt to his feet to meet his opponent.

     Momentarily taking his out of the air to touch his left arm, Ballard winced. Why wouldn’t it stop hurting? Now he clinched it to his chest, and could see Gant watching the action and noting too the grimace of pain. It was then Gant undoubtedly thought his moment for victory had come.

     Emitting an ancient scream as primitive and old as the caverns themselves, Gant brought up his knee into Ballard’s midsection, followed by his clasped hands made into a giant hammer to strike the back of Ballard’s neck, making him crumble like a rag doll at his feet.

 

     The deed done, Gant caught Evans’ eyes and smiled. He’d destroyed Ballard, and now all that remained was the Death Blow. The _coup de grace_. Kneeling beside him, he turned the other man up and shined his Follower’s light on the face. “Evans, get over here.”

     The other Ds ran to his superior’s side.

     “Put a light on his face.” The old man’s head turned toward the direct ray of Evans’ Follower beam, the man now opened his swollen eyes, and at once, Gant’s Gun was at his throat.

     “Francis! I’ve got ‘im. I won fair. Did you see?”

     “There was no answer.

     “Damn you, Francis, answer me.” His eyes jerked about then back to his victim.

     Still silence.

     “He’s gone, Gant,” Ballard answered.

     Gant, coldly glaring, hissed through half-closed teeth, “Why would he go?”

     But the old man closed his eyes in another grimace of pain, and Gant grabbed his shirt, shaking him. “Answer me. Why did he go?” He slapped the dying man across the face. “Why didn’t he fight me? Why?”

     Ballard opened his eyes and looked dimly into Gant’s contorted features. The creases in his forehead deepened as he attempted to speak, but Gant shook him again.

     “You bastard, answer me!”

     “There is no Francis. Only me, Gant. You lost.”

     A piercing scream split the cool damp air. “Noooooo!”

     Evans bent to the still form, touching its neck. “He’s dead.”

     “No, he can’t cheat me like this.”  Withdrawing his Gun, Gant fired a Tangler—his favorite of the six charges—into the now dead man, followed by a Nitro, first violently ripping then exploding the body, splattering blood and bits of flesh over Gant’s immaculate black uniform.

     The echoes of his violence reverberating in the cavern were repeated the deed back to the two Sandmen’s ears. But they were unmoved.

     “You are terminated, Runner!”

     “Then, suddenly, without warning, Gant’s eyes, looking down at that old man’s serene face, widened, his mind convulsing and haunting him with forgotten memories.

     “What did he mean, Gant, ‘There is no Francis, only me’?”

     Gant stared at the shattered corpse, his cruel mouth twisting into an obscene smirk. “He didn’t think I’d remember, but I always remember, don’t I, Francis?”

     The smirk turned to a leer of satisfaction.  “Evans, call the men in. We’re taking over Thinker.”

     The other operative spoke quietly into the mesh of his Follower while Gant continued to regard the dead man.

     “You know I always remember. Sooner or later, I always do.” He kicked the body into the open chasm. “Crazy old man, should’ve known you can’t fool Gant.”

 

The End


End file.
